


With Malice Aforethought

by Leela



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_wankfest, Masturbation, Other, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle with a Time-Turner in the Chamber of Secrets</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Malice Aforethought

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: eeyore9990, who didn't seem to mind that there's a first time for everything.
> 
> Written for [HP Wankfest 2011](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/hp_wankfest/) on InsaneJournal.

> _There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry's hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then ...  
>  He had gone._ — Chamber of Secrets

 

Tom Riddle is used to waiting. Being woken up every time someone opened up that damned diary had helped him to hold onto and expand the small store of self-restraint that Lord Voldemort had discarded decades earlier. However, none of that hard-won patience makes the days and months pass any faster.

Reviewing the Pensieve memory of his "final" exit from the world was only entertaining for the first hundred or so times. Poor little Harry Potter, so sure he'd defeated the dread Lord Voldemort that he hadn't so much as considered whether basilisk venom could destroy a Horcrux. Hadn't that self-righteous prig of a headmaster taught him anything?

Death to create a Horcrux. Death to bring a soul-splinter to life if the original no longer lived when the Horcrux was split open. And a basilisk slain by an innocent was as good a death as any other.

Just thinking about it makes Tom laugh again. His laughter echoes off the walls and fills the Chamber of Secrets. His amusement dies all too soon, though, and he returns to kicking his heels against Slytherin's forehead. Merlin's balls, but he's bored. If he'd known he'd end up stuck in this hellhole, he would have created himself another Horcrux to wait in. But he didn't and he hadn't. So he has a human body and human appetites and nowhere to fucking go.

A whisper of pain slices through him, and he clenches his jaw against it. Bloody Voldemort's at it again, trying to bring himself back to life. Bastard hasn't so much as checked to see whether another soul-splinter succeeded in his absence. Oh no. Voldemort's too fucking self-absorbed to give a damn about anyone but himself.

Growling with fury, Tom throws _Incendio_ at the remains of the basilisk carcass. The flames bounce off, merely charring a small portion of the skin. He raises the wand he found in one of the smaller rooms off the main chamber, aiming more carefully. This time the curse hits the desiccated left eye, and it bursts into flames.

The pain eases, and he lies back. Stretching out on top of Slytherin's head, his lower legs dangling, he stares at the ceiling. No spell can solve his dilemma. Time and date can only tell him what he already knows. No matter when the Voldemort soul-splinter was created, it's kill or be killed, because neither of them will consider sharing this world.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the old-fashioned Time-Turner he discovered inside a book that morning, dangling it by its chain and causing it to swing above him. Light glints off the glass and silver. The time-sand in the bottom glitters.

He lowers the Time-Turner, brushing it over his lips, and arousal slams through him. Limitless possibilities, innumerable worlds of past and future hang from the fingertips of his right hand, and Tom craves every single one of them. Desperately, viciously, and with malice aforethought.

A quick spell undoes the buttons on his robes, his shirt, and his trousers. He parts his lips, presses the tip of his tongue against the Time-Turner, and groans. The magic is right there, metallic and salty, taunting and teasing him with so many promises.

Tucking his wand into its sheath, he reaches down with his left hand, shoves his pants down, frees his cock, and rubs his thumb over the head. He sucks on the Time-Turner, drawing it into his mouth and releasing it, matching the rhythm to the rough tugging and squeezing on his cock. His hips rise, and he braces his feet against Slytherin's head, but it's not enough. It's never enough.

He needs magic. He always needs magic, has done since he learned what it can do, since he set a wardrobe on fire, since he hexed and cursed and killed with magic.

Releasing his cock, he grabs his wand. At his command, ribbons of green and silver pour from the tip of his wand and begin to slither over his body, wrapping around him. Power penetrates him, kisses and licks him, nips and shocks him.

Wand in one hand, Time-Turner in the other, he's stymied for a moment, but a flick of his wrist wraps the chain around his right hand. He takes hold of his cock and gives it a good stroke from base to head, twisting a little over the sensitive head as he usually does. On the down-stroke, the Time-Turner catches on his foreskin, bumps over the green ribbon that's winding its way up and down him.

Tom's skin prickles into goosebumps, and his hips jolt upwards into the feeling that's clawing up his spine. The Chamber of Secrets dissolves around him. He can no longer feel the stone beneath him. He's lying on power — his power, the Time-Turner's power, time's power. It's all around him. It _belongs_ to him.

Scenes flash past him in a haze of colours and unidentifiable shapes. Back and forth through time as he pulls, squeezes, and thrusts, and the Time-Turner rubs against him. Sparks dance along his nerves, flash through his sight. Voices surround him, unintelligible, unrecognisable. He comes with a triumphant shout, striping the Time-Turner with his release. His semen jams it up, stops the spinning, and he lands flat on his back, sprawled out over stone.

He lays there for a moment, staring up into the darkness, regaining control of his breathing, and he smiles. Wherever he's landed, whenever he's landed, it's all his. He's the only Tom Riddle, the only Lord Voldemort, and there'll be no Harry Potter to stop him this time.


End file.
